


time well spent

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16034051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Alcohol has made them lax and loose and Jack slings an arm over Sam’s bare shoulder and tugs her against his side, nosing at her temple. Her arm slips easily around his waist and she turns her face up to him, eyes bright and glassy.“You’re tipsy,” she accuses with a grin, squeezing his hip. They’d both been caught up in dodging brown-nosing politicians and trying to catch the other’s eye over their glasses of champagne and then, later, the few glasses of scotch that had been passed around.It wasn’t until Sam reached out to adjust Jack’s bowtie while Woolsey rambled on, fingers brushing tantalizingly over the curve of his Adam’s apple, that they made a hasty exit. Jack’s eyes had gone dark, he’d excused them both—his fingers wrapped around her wrist and tugging her towards the exit, glaring at her smirk and flushed cheeks—and they had stepped out into the cool night air.





	time well spent

**Author's Note:**

> This was the beginning of a smut prompt for the porn battle, but it just never turned smutty. Hope you all still like it!

By the time they stumble out of the hotel and away from the schmoozing and handshaking of Washington’s elite—and perhaps the fact that Jack is the one _stumbling_ should have been their first clue—the realization that they’re just a few shades past sober hits them. 

 

Alcohol has made them lax and loose and Jack slings an arm over Sam’s bare shoulder and tugs her against his side, nosing at her temple. Her arm slips easily around his waist and she turns her face up to him, eyes bright and glassy. 

 

“You’re tipsy,” she accuses with a grin, squeezing his hip. They’d both been caught up in dodging brown-nosing politicians and trying to catch the other’s eye over their glasses of champagne and then, later, the few glasses of scotch that had been passed around. 

 

It wasn’t until Sam reached out to adjust Jack’s bowtie while Woolsey rambled on, fingers brushing tantalizingly over the curve of his Adam’s apple, that they made a hasty exit. Jack’s eyes had gone dark, he’d excused them both—his fingers wrapped around her wrist and tugging her towards the exit, glaring at her smirk and flushed cheeks—and they had stepped out into the cool night air. 

 

Jack’s thumb rubs small circles over Sam’s shoulders before ducking his head and brushing his lips over hers, licking at the sticky red lipstick and dipping his tongue into her mouth to taste the sharp tang of champagne and the oaky remnants of scotch. 

 

“You’re looking pretty buzzed, too,” he murmurs against her lips, pulling back and brushing a finger over the bright flush on her cheeks. 

 

“Walk it off?” she suggests softly. Their apartment is only a few blocks away—maybe a fifteen minute walk—and between the clear night and the thought of walking any extended distance with Sam tucked against his side, it takes him no time at all to agree. 

 

They step out onto the sidewalk together and even on Earth, buzzed and relaxed, they fall into stride together and make clear, direct movements towards home. _Their_ home. 

 

As they walk, Sam works slyly at the button-down shirt tucked into the waistband of his trousers, pulling at the material, ignoring Jack’s bemused expression directed at her, and sighing when she finally slipped her hand beneath his shirt and pressed her palm to his skin. 

 

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning lazily down at her. He likes it when she’s like this: loose and uninhibited. She gets needy and demanding, needs the feel of him against against her, his arms around her, his lips on her. 

 

He had been wondering if she would make it until they got back to the apartment or not.

 

From the way she’s smirking up at him, her finger dipping below his waistband and pressing into the top of his buttock, he has a feeling they’re going to be making a detour. 

 

“Sam,” he groans out, steps faltering. 

 

“Yeah?” she echoes back, teasing. 

 

He stops and pulls her against him. The street is deserted and, even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure he’d care. Sam’s hand rests on his chest, right over his heart, and she leans into him, mouth parting and tilting up, waiting, expectant. 

 

“We’re only a few blocks away,” he reminds her, nose brushing over hers. “You can’t wait?”

 

Jack likes this, too; likes teasing her, likes hearing her ask for him, likes hearing her breathe out his name and curl her hand into his shirt and tug him close because—

 

“No, I can’t,” she breathes out, lips sliding over his. She presses forward until his back is pressed against a graffitied streetlamp. There’s something illicit and thrilling about this—making out in the middle of the street, illuminated by the streetlamp and dressed in black tie. 

 

He groans and tugs her close, big hands sliding down her shoulders and back before settling on the small of her back, ghosting over the swell of her ass and pulling their hips together. Her hand slides around from his back and up his belly, nails scraping over the trail of hair there. 

 

Jack hisses and pulls back from her, mouths parting with a _pop._ “Not fair,” he groans. “God, Sam.”

 

“Want you,” she sighs. Her lips brush over the cut of his jaw, tongue licking over the day’s growth of stubble, before dropping her attention lower and grazing her teeth over the tendons of his neck. 

 

“We’re, ah, a little exposed here, Carter.” It’s hard to think with her body pressed against his, her tongue and teeth and lips on his skin, the smell and taste of her heady and intoxicating. 

 

“Then get us to cover, General.”

 

It’s an order he won’t refuse and he grabs her hand which is wandering dangerously low, teasing and dancing over his belt buckle and the backs of her knuckles brushing over his cock—hard and hot and heavy beneath his slacks. 

 

He pulls her hand up, intends to tease her, intends to nip at her wrist and make a joke about friendly fire. Instead, the haze of pleasure clears just enough that he sees her—Sam, _his_ Sam, dressed in a black dress, eyes glassy with liquor and pleasure, lipstick smeared and swollen, and the streetlamp catching the gleam of silver around her ring finger. 

 

His eyes go soft and tender, his heart stuttering at the sight of his ring around her finger—the way it always does when he catches sight of her wedding ring. Most of the time the metal sits next to her dog tags, tucked safely beneath her uniform and letting her skin warm the metal. But tonight? Tonight he had slipped the ring off her chain and kissed her fingers softly and slid the ring back onto her hand where it belonged. 

 

“Jack?” 

 

He looks down at her and smiles, his free hand reaching out and brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. Mimicking his actions from earlier in the evening, he pulls her left hand towards his mouth and he presses a kiss to the warm metal around her ring finger—the same one that’s inscribed with _Always_ on the inside of the band—and then wraps his fingers tightly around hers and holds her hand against his heart. 

 

He’s always been an actions-over-words kind of guy anyway.

 

She softens, some of the heat ebbing from her cheeks and body, and she steps forward and presses a kiss to the center of his chest. 

 

“Me too,” she murmurs, tucking herself against him—her head under his chin, her arms around his waist, lips brushing at the patch of skin exposed at the base of his throat. 

 

They stand under the streetlamp like that, tucked together, for a moment. And then, because alcohol still flows through her veins, Sam’s fingers wander back under his shirt and then down over the front of his pants. 

 

He hides a noise—a cross between a huff of laughter and a strangled groan—into her blonde hair and she turns her head and nips at his jaw. 

 

“We’ve still got a few blocks to walk,” she reminds him. He’s hard again in his pants, her palm warm and applying pressure just right and he twitches, pressing himself into her hand with a gasp. 

 

“Not gonna do much walking if you keep that up,” he pants. She grins—the same grin that’s haunted him since the day she turned it on him after starting at a shimmering wormhole; the same grin he’s been chasing since he realized it made his heart rate pick up; the same grin that made him want to get up day after day and take his place beside her. 

 

With mercy, she withdraws her hand and slides it into his, lacing their fingers together, and pulls him away from the streetlamp. 

 

Jack looks up the street, mentally assesses the distance to their apartment—the time it would take to get Sam up the steps of their building and into the quiet elevator, how long it would take to press her against the elevator wall and get a leg between her thighs and suck a mark on her collarbone, how long it would take to tumble into their apartment and shed clothes and get her beneath him and her legs spread and his tongue on her sex and—

 

“Carter,” he rasps out, fumbling for the cell phone inside his breast jacket pocket. “We’re calling a damn Uber.”

 

She grins up at him, brow furrowing in question, and sliding back against his side, pressing close. “It’s, like, six blocks, Jack.” 

 

He grunts, fingers already prodding his screen and calling for a car. “Too long,” he mutters, nodding in satisfaction before pocketing his phone. He has four minutes before their driver will be here.

 

Jack grins, slides a hand up to cup her cheek and cups the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair at her nape. He watched as her eyes fluttered shut and her lips curved into a smile, head tilting and pressing into his palm. 

“So, we aren’t walking this off?” she teases, stepping closer, keeping the heat between them. 

 

“No, we’re definitely not,” he agrees, stepping back and resting against the streetlamp once more. She steps easily between his splayed legs, feet fitting together like the teeth of a zipper, and then her hands are on his body once more. 

 

From the way she grins at him before her lips press over his and the glint in her eyes, he wonders—not for the first time—if this was her plan the whole time. 

 

And then his arms are full of nothing but Samantha Carter and he has four minutes before he can climb into the back of a warm car with her, have her pressed snugly against him, have her hands wandering over his thighs, have his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of her dress and the sound of his name on her lips. 

 

Better to spend four minutes with his arms around her—her tongue stroking over his and her soft sighs filing him up—and another three minutes in an Uber—revving her up with slow, soft touches, grazing fingertips along her knee and below the hem of her dress—than walking clumsily with a hard-on and fighting the urge to pull her into the nearest alley and press her up against the rough brick and risk them both being brought up on public indecency charges. 

 

Much, _much_ better.

 


End file.
